


i relate to every annoying genius! DONT GET HIT BY A CAR!

by hiptothejavabean



Category: The Jackbox Party Pack (Video Games), You Don't Know Jack (Video Game)
Genre: That is all, cookie masterson my beloved, gay pride for cookie masterson only. literally, my grilfriend.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-21 20:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30027414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiptothejavabean/pseuds/hiptothejavabean
Summary: call your doctor immediately if you faceplant in the salad bowl. im doing this out of sheer boredom! over an apple store employee type beat! sometimes i wonder if a single good thing exists on earth. and then i eat cinnamon toast crunch
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	i relate to every annoying genius! DONT GET HIT BY A CAR!

**Author's Note:**

> get a bucket and a mop for this wet ass cookie

Every morning that cookie woke up from a dream was a nightmare. When she was completely empty, just a brain-husk for those three hours she normally slept, that was good shit. But every time her brain insisted on being, like, somewhat conscious for 20 minutes, it was all existential-horror this and your-life-is-being-simulated-and-you-are-trapped-and-going-to-die-for-capitalism-please-save-me-geometric-shapes-i-dont-exist-beyond-a-concept-but-im-a-person-im-real-please that. Cookie would wake up all fucking shaky, and most of the time she’d end up puking in the binjpipe toilets before she even clocked in for recording or anything. And she’d say, well, if a person can live with their brain cut in half lengthwise, and the brain worked like a mario kart wii track that had an ultra shortcut, how would she have to cut her brain whenever she started having nightmares to hit the finish line and cycle right back around to the brainlessness? And would she need like, a mushroom? It was way too complicated. All in all, cookie just hated waking up like that.  
Waking up to one cat stepping on their dick and one’s foot in their mouth was also high on the list of bad ways to wake up.  
Combine the two and cookie wasnt a very happy camper. Especially not in his apartment. Like, a tent would fit, but since he always had a window open in the bedroom...how would the oxygen affect the campfire?  
“Mneh,” cookie said, upper face peeking out from under her comforter like cozy Homer Simpson, “nnh.” Her eyelids stuck together even as she started writhing to get away from her beloved cats. It was unsuccessful; poopsie planted his ass on her eye.  
They shrieked and swung their arms around, disturbing both poopsie and the, like, six cumsocks settled around their head. But mayonnaise remained firmly curled up on cookies stomach. Finally, they opened an eye, and like normal, mayonnaise’s beady little cat eyes were locked onto theirs.  
“Hello. Welcome to the real world, Cookie Masterson.” Mayonnaise had his little paws folded like a businessman. SOOOO CUTE!!!! Cookie beamed down at him, but one eye was still stuck closed and his entire lower face was numb, so it was more of a grimace. Mayonnaise continued: “Today, you will have to choose. Would you rather go to work, my dear owner, and puke in each toilet in each binjpipe restroom and then not flush it just to spite alexandria? Or, would you rather partake in a gay pride parade, and have delicious fruity drinks? The choice is yours.” Every morning, Mayonnaise provided a nice decision like that. It really helped Cookie make sense of each day, which was really helpful. It was almost like Mayonnaise knew when he was all hungover and sleepy and starving and kind of dizzy.  
“I do,” Mayonnaise helpfully added.  
Cookie launched upward, sending mayonnaise flying into their already shattered 1996 tv set. Both fists clenched and one eye still shut, they slammed both fists down into their comforter. “I’M THE ARBITER OF MY OWN FUTURE!” They declared, and the lady who lived upstairs slammed on her floorboards to get them to shut up. Cookie made another just loud grunt noise just to piss her off.  
All grandiose and swinging his limbs everywhere, Cookie tried to plant himself on the floor next to his bed, but just ended up rolling off and into the shattered glass and previously disturbed cumsocks. He gurgled as he rose to his feet, bleeding all over the floor. At least it would mix with the blood already in the carpet, and if the cops came around, it’d fuck up the DNA samples. Unless Cookie had the same DNA as that blood.  
Finally, she stood, and raised both hands to the sky, knees all wobbly. “I’M GONNA SHOW THOSE SHITTY HOMOSEXUALS WHAT BEING GAY IS ALL ABOUT!”  
They collapsed back to their knees. Poopsie wandered back around the room and started lapping up the blood.

This had to be good. This all had to be perfect.  
Cookie never really “ate” “breakfast.” They sort of scrounged around binjpipe whenever they got hungry, and they literally were NEVER disappointed. So, even though they weren’t going to binjpipe today, Cookie just poured like. Six, maybe? Cups of coffee. Like shots. And then they were done. Hmm...if they missed a shot and hit their face instead, what temp would it have to be to give them third degree burns?  
Spluh. Whatever. She needed something cute. Hot, even. To wear. But tacky. Tacky like...a spider in 8 different shoes. Not even paired up. Like, GROSS.  
He had like 20 closets. Each drawer counted as a closet, right? Cookie gnawed on his thumb (which was basically mincemeat and if anything just some shredded remains of a thumb, but it tasted good), opening the fridge.  
Wrong closet. Yuck. They really had to like, dispose of their uncle sometime. And a neon green button-up was just too much.  
Mayonnaise tripped him almost deliberately as Cookie made his way to his office. Directly impaled on a nail in the floorboard, Cookie began struggling, but Mayonnaise planted a paw on his wrist.  
“Hello, Cookie Masterson. You are on the transition boundary between two worlds. If you pass, a curse dictates that you must eat shit and die sometime today. If you don’t, you will become effectively immortal for the day, but you will have to go to work. Make your decision.”  
Mayonnaise padded away. DAAAWWWW, HIS LITTLE SUIT...SOOOOOOO CUTE!!!!  
Moving into her office, Cookie removed the screen from her laptop. Various pairs of legwarmers, shitty tshirts, and ball gowns tumbled out and onto the keyboard.  
Selecting a slutty feather boa from the floor, he began to gather up his selected wares: the green buttonup from earlier (he’d changed his mind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), the evil boa, three pairs of legwarmers to wear as some kind of amputated pants abomination, and those socks with toes. He hated those, but you have to make sacrifices for fashion. Which reminded him--if Louis Vuitton participated in sacrifices, and he declared that each human body was worth about as much as a pair of heels from his company, about how much would Cookie’s sacrifice be worth? It was a futile question: he knew he’d be worth like, a cool $20 even. That would be awesome.  
Nevermind! Cookie smacked both palms onto their thighs in rage. There was much more important business to attend to.  
Strutting out of her apartment--not forgetting her neon pink backpack containing all her belongings with those plastic spikes sticking out of the top half that she’d found on sale in an Office Depot--Cookie let out a chuckle.  
“Those pathetic gays won’t know what hit them.”

Ah, zhe Pride Parade. An ocean of various colors, swimming together.  
At least, that’s what it looked like to Cookie, leaning over the balcony of this dumb kitschy restaurant. Honestly. They had one of those singing fish plaques! Seriously! I mean, sure, Cookie mashed the button to make it sing about 30 times and then left, and he could still hear it singing from inside the restaurant, but like. They basically asked for it. Sorry not sorry.  
It was like, noon, and the parade was going on below, so the outdoor seating was pretty much full, but Cookie had used their elite standing to get out there. Enough whining and nagging could get you anywhere! They had a plate of something resembling the intimate relations of a blobfish and a slimy chicken cooling at their table, but Cookie was totally unconcerned with that.  
She was instead concerned with the seven chances she had to hit this guy who totally copped her look.  
The minibar had only allowed her seven shots, even though she’d told the loser behind the bar that she wasn’t even going to drink them. Something about how they only had seven shot glasses, something stupid like that.  
Cookie had never been very good with aim, but he figured, uh, if the balcony was 15 feet up, and the guy was 20 feet away from the base of the building, the hypotenuse of that triangle would be.... God, who cares? All that mattered was his trajectory and...how do you even calculate that??? Whatever. Cookie hauled back and snapped a glass in the thief’s direction.  
It flew through the air, catching the sunlight. Cute!  
As soon as Cookie noticed the pretty reflection, the glass just as quickly was shattered against the back of some rando’s head. FUCK.  
Cookie grimaced, ducking below the railing. They couldn’t see what was going on, but there was some screaming and swearing, but that could just be the parade. They needed to lay low for a couple minutes, like, for safety.  
As he sat below the railing, Cookie philosophized about the nature of his life. It was very odd how he could get deathly injured, maybe even die, some days, and would snap back the next. He got his way most of the time, too. It was different from how he used to live--it used to be like, he could boss and kick around those weirdo interns who’d grovel at his feet after, but he had power over them. Like, 3 years ago, Cookie would never’ve been able to get stabbed with a nail in his apartment and not get tetanus. His jaw always locked up after that, it hurt like a mofo. But he could’ve never done that, bled out a little, and then demanded all the shot glasses a restaurant had. He would’ve gotten smacked around and shit.  
Once the shrieks died down, Cookie deemed it safe to get up, and rose from behind the railing like the phoenix rising from the ashes. Quickly whipping another glass in a vague direction, they hid. This was fun!  
Until they heard someone yell something about--about “transphobic, homophobic losers,” or something, and--what? Why the fuck would someone say that?  
She scuttled up the railing, pulling herself up so she was standing on the thin lil rail. Vindictively, she jabbed a finger in the direction of the voice.  
For a few seconds, they breathed in, and then immediately collapsed, falling 15 feet to the ground.

A few hours later, when she was scraped off the sidewalk by a car tire, mayonnaise nodded wisely, knowingly, from within her apartment.  
“This is your new reality, Cookie Masterson,” he meowed.

**Author's Note:**

> an emoji for each stage of grief, man good luck looking good in anything!


End file.
